The celebration feast felt more like a wake.
We'd retired to the palace after the ceremony, and tradition demanded a banquet to mark the conclusion of Divine Judgment. But the atmosphere in the great hall was tense, divided, nobody quite sure how to interpret what had happened.
"That was either brilliant or catastrophic," Aldric muttered, appearing at my elbow with wine. "I genuinely can't tell which."
"Neither can anyone else," I replied, watching nobles cluster in faction groups, arguing in hushed voices. "Which might be exactly what we needed."
"Ambiguity as strategy?"
"Honesty as necessity," I corrected. "The Preservationists wanted clear divine rejection. We couldn't give them clear divine approval. So we gave them something neither side can use—divine neutrality."
"The Preservationists aren't accepting neutrality," Aldric observed. "Look."
